Whipping Boy
by pheonix1
Summary: The Vatican has a whipping boy. His name is Enrico Maxwell.
1. Prologue

notes: a horizontal rule means change of POV, location, or time-frame. it should be pretty obvious as to which...

Whipping Boy

|Prologue|

Alucard glared at the pathetic, smiling human before him.

It was hard enough getting it through customs, but after carting it through the fetid jungle, subsequently missing his transport, and now having to resort to a commercial flight, he'd be damned if it got confiscated due to some stupid carry-on rule. Anyone who dared touch his property would pay with their life-possibly their soul, if he was feeling particularly malicious.

After the hulking inconvenience of airport security and the continuous grind of countless human minds, he was feeling... -Well, lets just say small children were cowering from him, and wisely so.

The unnaturally perky woman blinked at him, cow-eyed and completely at his mercy despite the powerful stimulants running through her system. Her mind fell before him inevitably, just as the others had, though not without resistance. Coffee, it seemed, was a formidable enemy when consumed in large quantities. (He was banishing every last bit of the vile brew from Hellsing's larder when he returned. He would not allow Integra more weapons than she already had.)

Satisfied with the hapless woman's now manic expression, he hitched up his bundle and continued through the gate to his waiting plane.

He chuckled as he shifted the weight to his shoulder. Oh she'd be mad. Mad enough to lock him away for a while, for sure. But by God it would be worth the look on her face when she unwrapped it. She wouldn't see the irony of it until later, of course, but by then the initial shock will have worn off enough for her to appreciate it. -Maybe.

Or maybe not. Master could be dismally humorless about some things.

Ah well. It was too late to take it back, and truthfully he didn't want to. He did have an ulterior motive, after all. The Police Girl was much too loyal to Integra for her to be of any use in this newest endeavor-for the moment, at least.

Perhaps if she became a No-Life King... -But no.

He didn't see that happening in the near future, so he needed something else to test the waters. That's where his little 'souvenir' came in. It would be perfect, he knew. Just perfect.

He ginned, mindful of the sharp points but uncaring.

England was much too far away. 

* * *

"Where IS he, Walter? I want a status report, NOW!"

Walter nodded stiffly and slipped the radio headset back on. According to Captain Bernardette, the smuggling vessel hired to escort Alucard back to England had return empty-handed. Their excuse was that the Midian never showed at the rendezvous point and they, having other stops to make, continued on without him.

He made a note to never pay smugglers up front again-even if they insisted.

Tapping in a new frequency, he fumed silently. Intel wasn't Hellsing's primary function-their one true purpose was to smite the undead with the holy iron nail of their Organization. However, if it got out that Hellsing's pet Vampire was on the loose... Well, that would be very bad on all fronts, least of all theirs.

God forbid the Order get wind of this. They were just waiting for a chance to jerk Hellsing out from under its current proxy. If Alucard did anything untoward during his little 'side trip', they would have everything they needed to do so.

No one was more aware of this than Integra, who was on her second cigar of the hour.

This was insanity. What was Alucard thinking? There was nothing of note in a country that was less than 3% populated, other than the undead activity he'd been sent there to destroy. Certainly he wasn't sightseeing, and the vampire activity reported there had the distinct stamp of the FREAK variety. Nothing to slow him down, or even cause him to pause.

He had learned to operate a phone over fifty years ago, so why wasn't he using one now?

When the phone rang Walter jumped a little, startled by it's timing. Looking to Integra, he picked it up and answered with the usual Hellsing greeting. He immediately held it away from his ear as a tinny voice shouted from the other end. Covering the receiver, the butler held a quick conference with his superior.

"It's Sir Penwood. He wants to know why Alucard is at the airport."

The Hellsing Director's platinum brows nearly disappeared into her hairline. Swiping the phone from him, she took over, speaking harshly into the line to cease the man's bellowing.

"SIR PENWOOD! -There's no need for that, -yes. Yes. I heard. He simply missed his transport and had to make due with what was available. -Of course, I knew! Ye- What about a 'large parcel'?-"

They both looked at each other in confusion, before Integra continued.

"Probably just a medical sample. -Well, Sir Cultsworth has been complaining about the lack of medical study going into these FREAKs, so I asked him.. -Well, of course it isn't! Do you think they have that sort of equipment lying about in the jungle? -Sir Penwood, I assure you we have everything under control. It was regrettable that we had to resort to this, but I'm sure we can agree that speed overruns stealth in this matter. I understand. Yes. -Good _day_, Sir Penwood."

She dropped the phone into its cradle and gave Walter the most chilling glare he'd ever seen.

"Send someone to pick him up. -Not you; I need you here to help me with this _mess_. Send the Captain, they get along well enough not to kill each other on sight."

Grinding her mostly-spent cigar into the ashtray, she instantly lit up another.

"God help him if he has another hapless chit with him. I'll end his existence myself, I swear..." 

* * *

Captain Bernardette sighed around his cigarette.

He'd been pulled out of drills to play chauffer to Alucard. _Again._ It was bad enough they'd been throwing him and the Midian together more times than he was comfortable with, but they always had to give him the jobs any peon (with some terrorist training) could do. Alucard was considered 'the big guns' and when they sent him out with the Trash Collector, he couldn't even be labeled as support.

"Suck it up, Soldier. Today you babysit them. Tomorrow you kill them. The pay is the same, no?"

He blew out an impressive smoke cloud-only to snort it back when a very familiar, very dangerous voice coiled around him like a viper.

"That's an interesting take. Perhaps you should ask for a raise. I doubt you'll get it, but it should be amusing to watch, in any case."

He met the Midian's jackal grin without coughing and without meeting his eye. He'd seen what those eyes could do to a man and, fuck pride, he would swallow lead before becoming a monster's bitch-especially _that_ monster's bitch.

He eyed the large bundle cradled the vampire's arms instead.

"Ah, you want me to get that for you?"

Alucard's grin took on a razor's edge, but he remained silent as he breezed by-the captain's slight apparently forgotten or ignored. He noticed the vaguely oblong bundle was wrapped in the Midian's own red coat, and that the vampire refused to part with it; going so far as to juggle it into the idling car.

Taking one last calming drag, the Captain ground the spent cigarette into the unforgiving pavement and climbed into the driver's seat. His indulgence didn't quell the sense of dread that fell over him when he glanced into the rearview mirror, but they had yet to invent a vice that did that.

He would know. He'd be the first in line.

Pulling out of the airport and into rush-hour traffic, the blond occupied himself with the imaginary destruction of the numerous and nearly motionless obstacles keeping him in this awkward situation.

"_Merde__. _My kingdom for a tank..." 

* * *

Alexander Anderson surveyed the remnants of the small village with a grimace.

It was obvious the Nosferatu had been here. There were bodies strewn about nearly decapitated; their throat's ragged from the monster's serrated teeth with a liberal smattering of bullet-holes each. Most of the undead had already turned to ash, but there was a wrinkled corpse or two. Or twenty.

Most of the area damage seemed to be from fire. That could only have been Maxwell.

But there was no sign of the man, nor the fell beast Alucard. The Vatican had sent him straight away after finding out that the local government had personally asked Hellsing for aid _after_ Iscariot had already been dispatched by requests from the local clergy. This happened often in places where neither side held dominion, and the likelihood that Hellsing had known of Iscariot's involvement when they had sent their own agents was possible, but unlikely.

Hellsing didn't like to spread themselves out so thin, preferring to stay in their own jurisdictions-especially with their numbers as small as they were. -And especially when it meant certain death.

Frowning, he walked the area, looking for any signs of the young Director.

Maxwell had surprised him by taking this assignment. Before landing his desk job, he had been groomed for field work by Anderson himself. He had expected great things out of the child whose zeal and focus were truly terrible things to behold, but he had been overruled by Father Renaldo, who had seen the boy's skills as something to be harnessed. Yolked.

It had been a bitter argument, but in the end he had no say in the matter. He was just a weapon after all. An instrument of God.

It was a crime though. All that determination tethered to internal politics. Made him sick.

Maxwell seemed to be worse for wear as well. Too much responsibility at such a young age. Too much power. It was souring him. Where there was once a haughty, determined child, there was now a smarmy, sneering young man. Field work would have tempered that out of him, made him into something better. More pure.

In any case, being behind a desk apparently hadn't dulled the man's edge. It was obvious most of the destruction here was wrought by those clever hands, though where the man had procured enough fuel for the explosions and the fires, he could only guess. Most of the country was untouched by man, being large swaths jungle with few creature comforts and even fewer items that required petrol.

It warmed his heart to know that Maxwell wasn't quite lost yet. Maybe the Pope would see just how good he was and reconsider his worth as a field agent.

That was based, of course, on if the man was located.

Seeing that Hellsing's pet vampire had been here as well, there was a possibility that they had encountered each other. Knowing Enrico's mouth, he had probably gotten himself killed. If he didn't find a body or some evidence leading to his whereabouts, then Hellsing would be getting a call.

A _house_ call.

Heading towards the edges of the village, Anderson said a little prayer. As much as Enrico frustrated him, he wanted him found-preferably alive.

And if Hellsing was involved, he prayed that his would be the hand of retribution.

|End|


	2. A Gift for the Iron Maiden

This takes place after the battle with Tublacain, but before Millennium actually comes out into the open. The timeline goes completely liquid after that.

Also, for future reference, words that are _italicized_ in [brackets] are [_words spoken in another language_].

Whipping Boy

|Chapter 1|

Integra paced, now on her fourth cigar-or was it fifth?

Damn that insufferable monster! She'd seen the surveillance feeds from the terminal. If that wasn't a body he was carrying, she would eat her cigar-ash first.

They were waiting for his arrival. Captain Bernadette had checked in with the status that they were en route, but delayed by traffic. Knowing the vampire would hear, she had wrenched the receiver out of Walter's hand a proceeded to give her servant a lengthy dressing down-only to be cut off abruptly when the transmission ended on the other side.

It seemed Alucard wanted to give his explanation in person.

Growling, she bit the end of her cigar so hard it nearly severed. It had better be a damn good one. She held no illusions about her lie to Sir Penwood; they had already sent a plane back to Africa (discreetly of course) to pick up a ghoul-if there were any left. She had already rehearsed a few scenarios with Walter, and in the event they couldn't secure one, they would simply say they'd had to destroy it for whatever reason. It had happened enough that it should be an easy enough lie to believe.

It was the reason they didn't have more medical samples, in any case.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the butler, who simply bowed before ushering in her servant and the parcel in question. She mercilessly ground her cigar into the over-flowing tray before turning to face him; her rage barely checked.

"Might I ask, Alucard, why you missed your transport?"

Alucard was grinning. Had been from the moment he'd stepped into her office. It did little to assuage her anger, but it did send a chill of apprehension through her. She was familiar with that cat-ate-canary grin, and it did not bode well. Not at all.

As if listening in on her thoughts, his grin widened to Cheshire proportions.

"Iscariot was there."

That made her pause. It was a valid excuse, in Alucard's case, but if the two agencies had clashed, then surely she would have heard Maxwell's ranting by now.

"So you were off playing with the Paladin? I trust you met your objectives, first."

He actually chuckled at that.

"Of course. -But Anderson wasn't there to play with, so I lost interest. I _did_ find a gift for you, though. Would you like to see it?"

He didn't wait for her affirmative before he unraveled the contents of his coat onto the couch.

"For this, I missed the boat. I hope it's to your liking."

The first thing she noted was the spill of white that slithered out of the red duster and over the edge of the couch. Hair. _Silver_ hair. The matted clumps suggested it had been left untended for quite a while. It was connected to a pale face, smooth in sleep or, more accurately, unconsciousness.

Concentrating on the features, her scowl deepened. She knew that nose. It usually proceeded a sneer and an ego the size of the Europe.

Suddenly the whole picture crashed down on her. Black cassock[1], stained darker in places by what could only be blood. Gloves turned rust-brown on which the Iscariot manifesto could barely be read. Clerical collar ripped down to the clavicle, exposing a pale throat.

Maxwell. Father Enrico Maxwell, Director of the Vatican's Section XIII and all around Catholic _swine_ was draped supine over her respectable leather couch.

Moving closer to inspect her 'gift', Integra was pleased to note the tremor in her body was not betrayed by her voice.

"I hope you kept the receipt."

Alucard's bark of laughter echoed in the quiet room, but the figure on the couch didn't stir. Not even a twitch. In fact, she was quite sure the man wasn't breathing. If Alucard had brought her the man beaten but _alive_, then she might be able to appreciate the joke. Having that insufferable swot owe her a personal favor was something even she might consider advantageous-especially with the added bonus of rubbing the man's face in it.

She reached down to feel for a pulse, but faltered before touching skin. If she woke him, there was the very real possibility of a violent reaction-more so if he was actually coherent. Her servant, taking in her reluctance, grabbed the priest by the scruff of the neck and held a limp arm out for her inspection.

"Is the Lady not pleased? I assure you he is completely tame. -Go on..."

Ignoring the wet gleam of those shark-like teeth, she took the offered wrist and felt what she already knew to be true. Maxwell was, to coin a phrase, dead as a doornail. She withdrew with the distinct urge to wash her hands, though they were sheathed in gloves.

When she spoke again, all pretenses were gone.

"Alucard, are you trying to _ruin me_? You claim to be my faithful dog and yet you continue to undermine the very _essence _of all I stand for. -I have been generous. You've had a long leash. I accepted the Police Girl when I should have made you put a bullet in her head. My father would have seen to it himself!"

She took a deep, cleansing breath.

"It seems I cannot live up to the standards he set before me, but I had thought that perhaps my way governing was sufficient. That we had an understanding of what was expected of you and your role in this Organization..."

She paused before pounding her fists onto the desk.

"HOW DARE YOU LAY THAT VATICAN PIG AT MY FEET! DID YOU THINK I WOULD BE AMUSED? IF YOU WANTED TO KILL HIM THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE SO AND LEFT HIS CORPSE WHERE YOU FOUND IT! I _ORDER_ YOU TO TAKE HIM OUT OF HERE AND RIDDLE HIM WITH SILVER UNTIL THERE'S NOTHING LEFT BUT ASH AND _MAYBE _I'LL THINK ABOUT LETTING YOU OUT IN THE NEXT TWENTY YEARS! OR FIFTY! NOW, **GET OUT OF MY SIGHT**!"

It was difficult to refrain from wheezing with all of the chain smoking she'd done in the last few hours, but she managed by sheer force of will. Heaving slightly, she didn't expected Alucard to dance off to do her bidding, but she certainly didn't expect the wolfish smile to slide into a sneer.

"Integra, did you ever stop to think that the scorn of your so-called peers comes not from your being a woman, but for the name your father made for himself and ungraciously passed on to you?"

Integra was speechless.

"_What_? Are you..? How _dare_ you attack my _father_-"

She could feel the heat of his eyes from behind the mirrored lenses as she choked on her rage.

"I think you're old enough to hear just how high your father's standards were back then. Perhaps then you'll see just how far apart they are from the one's you've set for yourself. Hmm?"

He tapped a finger to his chin, ignoring his fuming master who was still gulping air like a fish.

"How about making a thirteen-year-old boy into a killing machine? Or sending the same boy, at fifteen and still a _virgin,_ to the battlefield in the company of a vampire; fighting scores of undead on foreign soil with no protection but piano wire and a prayer."

He paused to give her a nasty smile; less teeth and more guile.

"Or maybe you'd like to hear about how your Father promised me the boy just to keep me from his precious Hellsing blood."

She felt her face go from very red, to very pale.

"You know, by then I had grown quite fond of Walter; enough so that the your Father's denial of the Covenant no longer angered me. Still, it's a very good thing that he's dead, because if he were still alive, I would have killed him for betraying me and taken you as my prize. My boy is too old. Ruined. It would be cruel to make him a true Angel of Death, now."

There was genuine regret in his voice.

Whether this was for Walter or the untimely death her Father was anyone's guess.

"You... My Father would never have done such a thing..."

Her reply was rough with disbelief. Alucard never lied to her outright. Omitted things, yes-frequently in fact, but had never told her a lie straight to her face. He had no reason to now, not when he'd already stoked her ire.

"Master, all you saw in your childhood was a very old man trying his best to make you into what he was not. -If you don't believe me then ask Walter yourself. He doesn't know about being my property, but he'll tell you about the whores and the strange men and the-"

"ENOUGH! I'm through with this! It has nothing to do with the fact that you've made a complete mess of things right here, right now. It does not change the fact that I want you to take that piece of garbage out of here and _get rid of it_!"

"No."

Her glare could have burnt flesh.

"_No_? And just who do you think you are, _Servant_? I believe I just gave you an order."

It was hard to tell, with the glasses, but she was sure that he had that infuriating look on his face. The one he liked to wear when he threw his two hundred plus years against her twenty, usually to belittle one of her decisions.

How she loathed this parody of a man.

"Master, he has told you a _fraction_ of what he knows about Millennium. His security clearance is higher than the Pope's, and he has some very unorthodox connections that could be very useful to us."

The Hellsing Director glared balefully at him, her rage simmering. He continued with a smirk.

"He can't go back to them, not like this, and he has no where else to go. If he tried hiding among the Catholics here, word would eventually reach Rome. Imagine, his precious Paladin taking him to the sword..."

It was a pleasing thought, but she was preoccupied with the question of where he'd learned all this.

"And you know of this, how? Surely you haven't been following along this closely. It's hardly your style, nor your _place_."

His smirk stretched back into a grin as he pulled a limp Maxwell to him. He tapped the white throat.

"It's all in here. In the blood. When I took it, I saw everything he was; everything he knew. His life became mine in the truest sense. This is common for true Midians. I'm surprised you didn't know."

She grunted in annoyance. She hadn't known. The books only told how to kill vampires; they didn't list their feeding habits. -Well, beyond 'prefers virgin'.

"That's fascinating. And since you've seen everything that's in his head, explain to me why I shouldn't have him incinerated on principle?"

Alucard tsked at her lack of vision.

"Don't you see, Master? He belongs to me now and, by extension, to you as well. I know you've secretly desired him to eat crow, and now he will-I'll see to it personally. And though I might have seen all of his secrets, even I can't remember the whole of it. Just say the word and I can make him tell you everything he knows on whatever topic you like, whenever you like."

He dropped the priest carelessly back onto the furniture.

"I suppose if you don't want him, I can destroy him; but it seems such a waste. I could have left him to die with that wound of his, but who am I to pass up virgin's blood when it flows so freely, hm? -Especially a man's. That's a rare vintage these days."

Integra thought for a moment, weighing the pros and cons. On one hand, having access to her erstwhile enemy's mental catalogue of connections and information was very tempting, as was the torture he was likely to endure being Alucard's fledgling. Compared to Seras, Maxwell in no way held any of the vampire's fleeting affection, or even the cold indifference the Police Girl so often complained about.

Though, it was very possible the vampire would have his hands full preventing the priest from taking his own life. But that was hardly her problem. Or any problem, really.

On the other hand, if word got out that Alucard had made yet another 'servant', it would look very bad for her Organization. Maybe they would order her to put him down again, something she really didn't want to do, for all her threatening. They were just too short handed to do without him at the moment, even with the Police Girl. Not to mention what would happen if the Vatican caught wind of this. She was sure this was a gross violation of... something, and there was no way she was paying reparations for Maxwell's worthless hide. As God as her witness, she wouldn't give Rome the time of day, let alone a dime of Hellsing's money.

Pompous bastards would rot in hell, first.

The problem with either scenario was that one way or another, someone was probably going to come looking. If Iscariot had been sent to Africa before Hellsing, then it wouldn't take long for someone on their end to put two and two together and-

"Master, you're thinking too hard. All you have to decide is whether you are going to take advantage of the situation, or just play damage control. I doubt anyone will look for him too hard, they probably already have a replacement lined up. -I do hope the Paladin comes, though. I can't wait to see his face when his little boss calls me 'Master'."

Integra felt a surge of calm. Unfortunately the vampire was right. There was no use in thinking herself into a hole. She had to act.

"You'll do no such thing. If he is to remain here, then it is to be hidden for as long as we can keep it such. -Now wake him, I wish hear some of these secrets."

That seemed to catch the monster off guard.

"Right now?"

"Yes, _now_. I would like to see just what I'm getting myself into. I do hope you're prepared to put your money where your mouth is, monster. Wake him. Now. -That's an _order_."

* * *

Enrico Maxwell was having a very bad day.

Not that it came as a surprise. He knew this assignment was going to be trouble. Africa wasn't called the 'Dark Continent' solely for the skin of its people. From his sources, he knew the FREAK chip had been developed here, and while Hellsing wasted it's time in the Orient where inferior rip-offs were being mass-produced, the infinitely more knowledgeable Vatican was attacking the problem at the root. Quietly of course. What people saw on the News as tribal war and viral outbreak was actually the fruits of German engineering with a chip on its shoulder.

A very large chip called the Geneva Convention.

He grimaced as he tightened the tourniquet with his teeth, the cloth already slick with blood—much like the rest of him. There was the passing concern that the profusion of blood might attract something, but he'd gotten the Freak vampire in the first strike and the ghouls were busy feasting on what was left of the village-or themselves when all else failed. Grunting in pain, he tested the knot as best he could around a fist-full of knives and a hand scorched by explosion.

His one potentially fatal injury of the entire ordeal had been dealt by pathetic human hands, the ignorant natives lashing out at those who were only trying to help; or at the very least, trying to cleanse the undead filth from their midst. He had no idea where such a poor village had gotten their hands on a rifle, let alone ammunition, but it didn't warrant investigation. Not anymore.

Too bad the village was a tinderbox. At least those who died in the fires died as humans, heathen though they were. A different level of Hell, yes?

"I love how you justified that. Is it doctrine, or just insanity?"

Enrico looked to the heavens in supplication as the voice of Hellsing's Nosferatu floated above the muted roar of flames. In the back of his mind, he'd known an accidental meeting like this was possible, but had hoped Hellsing's losses would keep them closer to home.

Apparently the arrogance of that English sow knew no bounds.

"You're far from home, pet-and a little late. Unless you like sloppy seconds, I suggest you crawl back to that pathetic Jezebel you call Master, and begone. There is nothing for you here."

If his words offended, the vampire did not show it. He stepped out of the shaded jungle, purposely angling into the patches of filtered sunlight; a silent abomination to God. Its gaze was immediately drawn to the bloody makeshift bandage and dark stains on the priest's gloves; once white, now the same shade as the vampire's trademark coat.

"And leave you here to bleed to death, Father?" The grin was suddenly full of pointed teeth. "-Waste not..."

Before he could get a knife in the beast's eye, it was looming over him; pinning him further against the tree against which he had taken temporary refuge. Bottom-half trapped between the creature's long legs and arms pressed against his sides, Maxwell looked at what could very well be his death and did as any priest would do.

He spat in its face. And laughed.

"Waste? I'd rather be gutted by the most miserable of creatures in this God forsaken place than see a drop of my blood go to you, Monster. Aren't there children you could be eating? I think there might be some left in the village, if you don't mind them _au flambe_."

With little concern for the spittle on his face, the vampire threw his head back and laughed. Sneering, Maxwell tried to move his legs, his arms, anything... There was a small arsenal in his cassock, if only he could get to it.

He stilled when the nosferatu's attention snapped back to him, omniscient grin in place.

He could feel the heat of the vampire's gaze despite the mirrored glasses it wore. For a moment, the universe narrowed down to two beings, before the moment stretched into eternity. It just... stared. Uncomfortably off balance, Enrico bared his teeth and snapped 'What?', but to no avail. The monster didn't acknowledge him.

"Am I to be bored to death? Or perhaps scared? Hmph. How disappointing, but then I suppose I shouldn't expect much from a-ahh..."

Had he been paying attention to his surroundings, he would've noticed the tendrils of pure darkness twining around legs. They were now at his waist, probing past the haphazardly tied cloth to the wound in his gut. They were unexpectedly cold, and he firmly clamped down on the urge to thrash when they suddenly slipped past the barrier of cloth and went in-deep.

"Tell me," the unnaturally pale face said inches from his own, "-did you learn your tolerance for pain from the cross, Father? Or more likely, bent over a pew? Perhaps you should be tending to the monsters in your own flock before offering up children to the Beast of Hellsing, hm?"

The breach in his clothes made by that fateful bullet was stretched wider as the writhing shadows delved deeper still. He could feel them against his skin, both inside and out as they twined up his body. It felt as if his insides were slowly being filled with liquid ice. When they reached his chest they suddenly retreated. It was a small, temporary mercy.

The demon holding him let out a low chuckle.

"That much silver, priest? Is that what happens to the tableware of your patrons, Vatican dog?"

He said nothing; the darkness in his belly was languidly licking at his wound like an obscenity and it robbed his ability to retort-lest he bite off his tongue. Tangible shadows were at the corner of his vision now, coiling around his neck and twisting up into his hair. Shaking with effort, he could feel a gout of blood rising in his throat. Futilely, he tried to swallow, but his quivering, ravaged stomach was having none of it.

It came in a great, silent cough; but instead of sliding down his front in dark red rivulets, the flow was redirected into the Nosferatu, who had suddenly attached itself to his mouth.

He nearly knocked himself unconscious as he jerked his head back into the hard wood of the tree behind him, retreating from the cold tongue that that shot down his throat. Too far down. He couldn't breathe. He finally began to thrash as the unnaturally long muscle invading his throat lapped lazily at the retreating blood.

_Wake up._

Only when his vision started to gray did the monster retract his tongue. He spent the next few minutes sucking great lungfuls of air, ignoring the fact that his arms were free; that his cassock had been ripped open and white gloves were now slithering underneath. Little bursts of heat told him the vampire was divesting him of weapons; the contrast of cool shadows and hot flashes against his skin made his breath hitch. The dark tendrils feasting on the blood of his wound had withdrawn, and without the numbing cold the ache returned tenfold.

He ignored it all. He just wanted to breathe. He concentrated on it. One thing at a time.

_Wake up._

When he heard the thin chain of his cross snap, he knew what was coming next. He could still feel the unholy gaze of the monster bringing a flush to his now-clammy skin. He clenched his hands and felt the flesh stretch painfully on the burned one, and the flex of fingers around daggers still held in the other. Feeling the cold press of cloth on his chin, forcing his head back, he made a decision.

_Maxwell, wake up._

It was a tricky cut. Thankfully, Alucard didn't bother to deflect the blow, probably because the small blades would only cause the vampire a minor inconvenience at best, so it was with a wild surge of satisfaction that Enrico bit the edge deep into the tender column of his own throat; viciously giving himself a second smile.

Seeing the look on the nosferatu's face was pure joy.

_Maxwell, you will wake._

Vaguely, he was aware, past the pain of asphyxiation, of a strange sensation sliding around his ravaged throat before the shadows surged up and swallowed him whole.

_**Now**__._

* * *

He shot up, hand reflexively reaching for a throat that was no longer choking him with its own blood. Blinking wildly at the sudden burst of light, he didn't notice the strangeness of his situation until his eyes focused enough to take it all in.

He was sitting in an office.

A very clean, very _dull_ office whose unimaginative arrangement and decor suggested wealth without class. And who else would be the embodiment of that particular sentiment than the heiress of Hellsing herself; seated at the head of a desk whose massive size dwarfed her already meager frame.

He shifted and realized he wasn't sitting so much as reclining-on a very uncomfortable cushion.

Small wonder. The cushion turned out to be the Hound of Hellsing who, for whatever reason, had him by the throat. He batted the hand away, in mild annoyance.

How dare they? Stupid Hellsing pig would do well to keep her mongrel on a shorter leash-

The hand was back; this time, choking the life out of him. As he clawed at it ineffectually, he heard the beast chuckle.

"Fool. You assume there is life enough to leave you. Did you think you were dreaming just now?"

He was vaguely aware of Integra snapping out something in the background, but he couldn't be bothered with her right now. His mind was reeling from lack of oxygen and at the implication that he was... that he wasn't...

Not living.

Not dead.

_Undead_.

The vice around his neck suddenly released its hold, leaving him gasping, but strangely it was more a conditioned response than anything else. He barely felt winded. -Had he even been choking at all?

He looked down at himself, at the ruin of his clothes, at his surroundings, and closed his eyes.

And listened.

...

...

And listened.

...

...

And heard nothing. (Well, nothing but Integra's pathetic squawking, but he tuned it out, as usual.)

He realized he was holding his breath. -No. That wasn't right. He wasn't _breathing_. Which would account for the distinct lack of heart beat. And the chill in deep in his bones that didn't bother him as much as it probably should. And above it all; a steadily rising gorge that was dangerously close to becoming destructive. -Violently, mercilessly, _gloriously_ destructive.

_How dare they._

"Maxwell. -Maxwell, I just asked you a question."

_How dare they make him thus._

His eyes snapped open.

* * *

It happened in a fraction of a second.

One moment, the priest seemed to be having a short moment of stunned reflection, then in a blink he had Alucard on the floor. Walter tensed, expecting a lunge at Integra, but Maxwell had gone for the most direct source of his woe and was now astride it, swearing in (very dirty) Italian; fists moving faster than the eye could see.

If he hadn't been so concerned for Integra's safety he would have laughed at the absurdity of it.

Apparently that didn't stop Alucard, who wasn't even warding off the blows; chortling glibly even as the Iscariot's anger disfigured his face. He looked to his ward and noted that the Lady Hellsing was very close to losing whatever composure she'd collected in the last few minutes, and decided to intervene before she harmed herself by joining the fray.

Maxwell didn't bother to move away as the thin filaments curled around him. It was likely the slight catch of light against the strands didn't register-the man was busy shredding the elder vampire with an unholy zeal that surprised him. He'd been at the Museum, he'd seen the man's bravado, but he had always assumed his boldness had come from his proverbial ace in the hole-one Paladin Alexander Anderson. Seeing his total lack of fear, even in the few waking moments before it had all come crashing down, he couldn't help but re-evaluate his opinion.

Either the man had steel bollocks, or he was a total head-case. –Possibly both.

When he didn't respond to the warning tug, Walter decided the cocoon approach would probably be for the best. It would take all the wire he had, but hopefully it would keep the priest from cutting himself to ribbons. He wanted to spare the carpet, if at all possible.

Alucard might be bleeding all over, but he normally reconstituted himself without incident. He doubted Maxwell would be so obliged.

"That's quite enough. You're foolish if you think you're hurting him."

His reply is an enraged snarl and something that sounds suspiciously like it would translate to 'cocksucker' in English. He spreads the filaments to the four corners of the room, then guides them around the violent form. A flick of the wrist and a tug later, and the Iscariot is properly trussed, his rampage impeded by the thin metal strands. He doesn't have enough leverage for any heavy damage—though he does flop around a few times like a fish in his rage. He catches Integra looking at him wide-eyed, as if she can't believe the man's gall—to fight tooth and nail over something so futile.

An honest to God growl issues from his throat, and the curious moment is over. The Iron Maiden is back.

"Walter, I want you to put him in Alucard's old room. Perhaps after he's cooled his heels a bit, we'll try again."

"I'm right here_, _[_whore_]_. _Let me go and you can learn all of your answers in the Hereafter_._"

Sighing, Walter began the thankless task of dragging the grumbling man into the basement; barely resisting the urge to kick him a few times for his foul invective. –Most of it towards Integra.

Seras came back from drills to find the Hellsing household in something of an uproar.

Well, it wasn't really an _uproar_ unless one counted the priest in the basement, screaming obscenities to the four corners of his stone cell, but it didn't carry that far. Really. She could barely hear it.

No. That had been the tip-off that all was not well in the Manor today, but the real indication had come in the form of Master's voice in her head, telling her to give her status report to Walter instead of Integra directly, as was her wont.

_The Lady has no patience for servants this day. Give your report to Walter if you value your existence—such as it is_.

She had done so. Master's instructions, as opposed to his snide commentary, were given so rarely that they were never taken lightly. Still she had inquired as to Integra's well being, if only to assuage her curiosity. -She knew no real harm would come to her under Master's watchful eye.

_She is well enough to kill you if you give her leave. Keep away from her until she bades you otherwise._

Seras didn't bother asking about the man in the basement. She knew who it was. As to why he was there, well… She supposed she would find that out eventually. –Like it or not.

For now, she had a report to give.

The rest of it could wait.

|End|


	3. Spare the Rod

Whipping Boy

|Chapter 2|

Three days.

Integra had expected the priest to wear himself out much sooner than that, or at the very least, get a daytime reprieve—but it seemed she had grossly underestimated the man's mania. Though she couldn't hear it from the office, both Alucard and Seras confirmed that his ranting continued throughout the day and into the night and so on and so forth for three. Whole. Days.

She had ordered Alucard not to interfere. Let the monster lose some sleep for a change.

On the fourth day, a frazzled Seras had reported no sound from the sealed room, and later that night, a slightly grumpy Alucard confirmed the same. It seemed that Maxwell had finally exhausted himself.

She promptly sent Walter down with a tray and a promise of amenities if the man could behave himself.

Integra wasn't expecting much. The priest-turned-vampire had gone at least three days without sustenance—his time in Alucard's dubious 'care' not withstanding. And while Seras had done the same for longer, she hadn't spent that time yelling obscenities at the top of her lungs. (Nor had she done so without a coffin lined with her home soil.)

So it was with no little surprise that she found herself facing the Escariot from across the broad expanse of her desk, freshly washed and groomed—his matted nest of hair considered a loss and thus removed. Integra fought back a smirk. Without his mane, Maxwell had the look of a fresh-faced altar boy.

Scowling at the scrutiny, the priest crosses his arms over his chest with a 'humph'. It fails to impress.

There is much Integra can say at this point. Alucard has promised to bring Maxwell to heel, and she has no doubt that her servant will do so. With relish. However, she is curious as to how this strange turn of events came to be, and for that the knowledge must come straight from the horse's mouth—or pig's, as it were, without the Midian's interference.

Hmm. Straight to the point, then.

"What happened in Africa, Maxwell?"

She would like to say that she saw a moment's startlement behind those green eyes but, after a very short pause, she merely received a very familiar arch look.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific. A great deal has happened and I haven't exactly been conscious for all of it."

Her hands itch for the familiar shape of a cigar, and she curbs the craving by clasping them before her. A small mercy for Maxwell, though he likely knows the temptation of grinding the cherry into the closest bit of his flesh would test the very limits of her restraint.

It would probably be the first warmth he's felt since his 'death'.

"You know what I speak of. How was it you came to be there? How did Alucard manage to turn you? I do know a bit about how it works, and yet I can't imagine you asking for it, even on pain of death-"

Reaction is instantaneous. Faster than her eyes could track, the Section XIII Director was inches from her face, snarling—his pointed eyeteeth feral and gleaming. She felt the Seals rise to match the potential threat posed by his ire; threads of power weaving around them both for protection and subjugation, respectively.

"[_You whore-spawn mongrel!_] You think I asked for this! How dare you! I slit my own throat! I chose death over your monster's _mercy_!"

Realizing how close their faces were, and possibly feeling the slight burn of the Wards against his skin, he returned to his seat—though his gaze continued its efforts to scorch all visible layers of dermis.

"You know nothing, but I will not be the one to enlighten you. In time, you will learn the err of your ways from your _faithful servant_-" At this he sneered. "-but by then the truth will be little consolation. –For your information, I _never_ asked for this. I spit in your pet's face, and laughed at his shackles, for I knew they chained him to a vapid heathen slut, such as you!"

Integra felt her face heat with rage. God in Heaven, did the man have an infuriating way with words. She reached deep inside for calm. The same calm that destroyed obstacles, be they people or politics, buildings or beliefs. Walls merely perceived and those that were tangible.

All things fell before it. So would this man.

"Maxwell, you have a choice. You can either tell me everything, starting with your presence in that God-forsaken village, of your own free will, or I can have Alucard puppet everything I want to know from your unwilling lips. –I don't have to tell you that your little snit has put him in a foul mood and it is quite possible that you won't recover fully from it, should you choose that path."

She let that sink in a moment, before continuing.

"I know my Servant. While he speaks the truth, I know it is not always the _whole_ truth. In this matter I must rely on you. Speak with prejudice, as you will, but tell me in your own words what has happened to make you as you are now. –And know that you're only damning yourself with another outburst. I've sent Alucard away, but not so far that Seals won't alarm him of your tantrums."

She refrains from referring to Alucard as his 'Master'. That can wait until she isn't trying to pry information out of him. She fully intends to exploit it, though, if only to return this indignity in kind.

Maxwell is frowning. Most likely in consideration. She knows his current position is enough of a rub, so much that cornering the man hardly seems necessary or fair. But she also knows that were their positions reversed, the priest would spare no time lording over her misfortune before finding the quickest way to dispatch true-death.

There will be no shelter here.

Letting out a breath (and God only knows how long he's been holding it) he physically braces himself before starting his tale. He reiterates what she already suspected—that their combined presence had simply been a miscommunication between local government and clergy. The details were expectedly gruesome and liberally laced with the man's bigotry, but she had anticipated that, too. It was only when he got to the part where he lost his life, that Maxwell became vague. Confused, but adamant that he had in no way accepted a plea for so-called immortality and likewise that none had been offered.

She was compelled to believe him, but still couldn't understand how it happened. The tenants were quite clear on the matter. An offer made. An offer accepted. That was the way of it.

At best he should be dead. At worst, a ghoul.

"Alucard. Explain yourself. Does your childe lie?"

Maxwell immediately snarled at the vernacular but was silenced by his sire's entrance. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. Semantics. Really? The man was going to be a neurotic mess by the night's end.

Her servant smirked down at the seething priest, who issued a low growl in response—his attention fully trained on Hellsing's Alpha-Monster.

"No. He doesn't lie, though he does have a way with words—don't you agree? Everything is either an epithet or useless indoctrination. I'm surprised you gleaned anything from the conversation at all."

She merely blinked at his observation.

"I've learned to filter out most of the hypocritical gibberish. Now, explain yourself. If he doesn't lie, then how does a vampire sit before me?"

The jackal grin widened into Cheshire proportions.

"Oh? You mean you don't know? I'm surprised-especially at you, Priest. I was under the impression that your texts went back quite a bit farther than any in Van Helsing's library. Am I to assume that the Glorious Catholic Church does not know its enemy any better than a common Dutch scholar?"

He chuckled as Maxwell, hackles raised, shot out of his chair. Thankfully the Midian phased out before either could experience a repeat of their last confrontation. He materialized next to the window, still chuckling—raising the Iscariot's ire to the point that the wards intervened.

"[S_hit-sucking monster!_] I've known how to grant your eternal rest long before your so-called 'master' let you out of your miserable little cage. And as for _this_, you ignorant beast, there's NO WAY you could have-"

The priest choked on his rant before suddenly going still. A contest of wills ensued between fledgling and master—neither moving, their battle waged on a mental front. Integra could still feel the wards pulse around her, no doubt straining to keep the two vampires in check. She frowned. While she had no real worries about Seras, and to some extent, Alucard, it might behoove her to look into the wards themselves, and their limits.

With Maxwell already testing the strength of his tethers, intentionally or not, it would only be erring on the side of safety.

She waited. There was little doubt as to who the victor of this little contest would be, and she was content to let it play out. Though, she could only hope the insufferable bastard gave Alucard a migraine. –Common scholar, indeed.

She didn't have to wait long. With fluttering eyes, Maxwell took his seat—his sire taking the reins. Grinning that insufferable Jackal grin, he turned crimson eyes to his master; ignoring the youngling twitching in his chair, still trapped in thrall.

"Master, I am curious. –Do you think me a virgin? Or perhaps that I was upon being made thus."

Integra scoffed.

"It's my belief that the Devil Himself made you thus."

Alucard laughed, full-throated and dark with promise.

"Just as well, for I was a grown man; proven in battle and in a woman's flesh. And while those who uphold their chastity, like the priest there, are likely to become a childe of the night once bitten—it is not a guarantee. Am I correct?"

"Yes. We all know that children normally do not rise again, but remain dead—as do some adults that are not virgins. That still doesn't explain how one becomes a vampire against their will. The texts are quite specific in that regard."

Maxwell arched in his chair, eyes fluttering madly; a groan slipping passed his lips. The battle still raging, though obviously in the Elder's favor.

Both spared him barely a glance.

"Really? Well, then there must be some other explanation besides the validity of a text written ages before the Malleus Malificarum."

Integra narrowed her eyes at the poorly veiled sarcasm.

"The Malificarum is useless propaganda created for the sole purpose of justifying the slaughter of innocents. –I'm sure even Maxwell will attest to that. However, the text you're so intent on discrediting, and I assume it is my noble ancestor's journals you speak of, is actually a collection of texts, dating to well before that worthless bit of pulp-fiction to as late as fifty years ago. –And they all say the same thing. That you cannot turn a person against their will. Acceptance of the contract is vital, for it IS a contract; writ in blood and delivered by proxy—that would be _you_, to the intended applicant. –Which would, in this case, be no one; if Maxwell speaks the truth."

In his seat, the Iscariot in question finally slumped; eyes half-mast and staring out into nothing. The battle was won. –But not, Integra suspected, the war.

She turned shrewd eyes to the victor.

"You, yourself, validated Maxwell's claim. And I've yet to hear a explanation that meets my satisfaction as to why I am plus one nightwalker, when really I should be toasting the death of an annoyance. So, I would like an explanation. And if the next words out of your mouth are not to this end, I'll have no choice but to send you to your room, now that it's free. –Without supper."

Integra weathered the withering glare. Alucard was normally tight-lipped about his past, about his general knowledge, and (especially) about his weaknesses. If it wasn't taunting, temptation, or scorn, the Midian's counsel was kept largely to himself. He had humored her off and on during her childhood with useless small talk, but that strangely innocent time had faded with youth—as had her patience.

"I'm waiting, Alucard…"

There were a few more moments of token silence before he answered; his tone surly with a hint of sulk. It almost made her smile.

"I don't know."

Her potential grin died before it was ever born; ruthlessly smothered by her surprise.

"You don't _know_? You DON'T KNOW! –What the Hell was all _that_ then?" She flung a hand towards the catatonic Maxwell. "You mock him for his lack and yet bring nothing to the table yourself?"

The mulish look slid into a frown.

"Master, you assume that I have sired all Midians. I only hold the answers to my own creation, and that of my Brides, my children. I do not know the workings of this curse beyond what it has gifted me."

He bowed apologetically. When he straightened, his lips once again formed a smirk.

"However, I will inform my Sire of your inquiries. Perhaps his answers will be more to your liking."

Integra sneered.

"Answers from the Prince of Lies? -If you have nothing of worth to add to this _farce_, then get out—and take _that_ with you. "

Her finger stabbed in the general direction of the stirring priest. A clutch of dark tendrils exploded around him, the shadows swallowing his sudden look of abject horror. It is a cruel monster that releases its prey only when it is devoured; to watch the last sliver of light slip away. Alucard must be feeling spiteful.

In any case, the Iscariot was gone before he could scream.

It was only later, when she was reflecting the night's events to a blissfully empty office, that she remembered Maxwell had been on the verge of something before his Sire intervened.

Ah well. There would be time for that later. For now, there was tea. -And paperwork.

She raised the cup to her lips signed on the line. By the time she reached the acquisition forms, the moment was all but forgotten; discarded hubris in the wake of More Important Things. Like how much ammo the Geese thought they were entitled to.

Bloody mercenaries. 

* * *

Usually, by the time information reached the Captain of the Wild Geese, it had changed so many hands it wasn't worth the bullet that killed the messenger. Intel was gathered on a per-job basis through various contacts, both above and below the board, and only when the price was right. Since shacking up with the Hellsing Organization however, all of that was handled internally—and they didn't even have to pay for it.

The Lady draws her colors and they do battle. What could be simpler?

The Captain took a long pull from the cigarette at his lips. Intelligence was not their trade, but when people spoke to one another in hushed voices it was best to listen, even if it was at a distance and with half an ear. It was this way he learned the package he'd transported a week ago had contained not one, but TWO undead—one of which he'd seen skulking around the manor in nothing but a bathrobe; muttering obscenities in something that sounded like Portuguese. -Victoria says he is a priest.

If that is so, he will scare the men worse than the Trash Collector on principle. They are not monsters, but most would say they are not good people.

And they would be right.

It matters little to him however, if there's a new addition to the menagerie. Victoria is practically human, her Master serves the same Mistress as he, and the other, well… The Geese have survived worse circumstances than an undead priest with a grudge. This job has provided steady pay, nice lodgings, and reliable medical treatment. The Vampires are an interesting, if sometimes terrifying side note, but no more than hostile territory with none of the above.

So when the Butler escorts the scowling newest edition into his 'office' (which is really just a corner with a table shoved into it), he understands that things are about to become interesting—or terrifying, depending on his orders.

He gives a nod to Walter, who is looking slightly harassed.

"Captain, this is-"

"I can make my own introductions, Butler. Your services are no longer required."

Walter Dollneaz is not a man easily riled but it is obvious by the rigid set to his shoulders that this pale creature has sorely tested his legendary resolve. Which is saying a lot. The man they call 'Angel of Death' is constantly in the presence of vampires and is one of the few humans the big one will listen to without fail. To upset him is both unwise, and (thankfully) nearly impossible.

He is a little impressed. Despite himself.

"Very well, I'll leave you to it, then." He nods. "Captain."

Both watch the retainer's back as he leaves, a vague sense of finality settling over them. Careful to avoid eye contact, he sizes up the priest with a proprietary air. There can only be one reason for this meeting, although why it has fallen onto him, and not the creature's sire, is anyone's guess.

The robed figure sneers at his perusal; revealing a single wicked canine. Yes, he can see why the household has steered clear of this one. All the burgeoning pomp of Rome housed in an ill-tempered, pretty-faced package. He can't imagine what the Lady sees in this one that's worth keeping, but he understands now why this particular task has been left in his charge.

He is a childe in need of a lesson. -One he would not survive by his sire's hand.

"I am Father Enrico Maxwell and I am here to acquire clothing. –And please, spare me the introduction on your part. Whoever you are matters little to me."

Well. That wasn't exactly what he was expecting. He knows the Butler wouldn't foist off such a menial task as assigning kit, no matter how annoying the assignee, because that was what the man _did._ Dollneaz was the Requisitions Master. Nothing was given out unless it passed through his hands first.

He took another drag; letting the narcotics do their job.

"Pardon, but if you're looking for clothing, the one that brought you here is the man for that. I assumed you were here for battle assessment. The Butler can outfit you, if that's all you need."

The priest's sneer turned into a grimace of distaste. Ah, there was a catch then.

"Yes, well. -It has been brought to my attention that the only clothing I may acquire, other than what you see here, must be hewn with the Hellsing coat of arms. As only the Hellsing Militia may openly wear this crest, I am here to.. join it."

The last part was said in such a way as to mean, 'Eat shit'. –Which, by his expression, was exactly what Integra was making him do. The magnificent woman.

Laughing would get him killed, but it was a hard battle nonetheless.

"I see."

He paws around for a piece of paper; finally calling one of the men over when he finds none. Once they return with the requested items, he pushes them towards the priest, who eyes them with unveiled suspicion.

"Here. I need you to write down your qualifications. They can be anything you think may be relevant. Like languages or weapon handling; combat training…"

He takes another pull of smoke; taking in the other's almost scandalized expression with it. He's not expecting much, but he's not discounting anything either. He's made that mistake before. Thankfully it only cost him an eye.

"-Be as specific as possible. Like what languages you can read and which ones you know well enough to parse what is being discussed in a conversation. That sort of thing."

There is a moment of stunned silence; then the shell shock slides into indignation.

"I had no idea Hellsing had lowered itself to hiring right off the street. Do you know who I am, mongrel? Do you know to whom you _speak_? You want _qualifications_? I lead a secret organization whose divine purpose is to crush _heathen filth_ such as yourself until you quail for the true salvation of our Lord. Or go to Hell. -Which ever comes first."

It is he who is sized up now; like prey. He feels the telltale prickle at the base of his spine and remembers that this is not a man. Not really.

"-Would skinning your worthless hide in a single, unblemished piece be sufficient? If you have a letter-opener, we can start right now."

No. Not a man. A monster. Perhaps one even before he died.

"Mm. That would be impressive. However, I do not have a letter-opener so I'm afraid I can't accommodate you. And that would count as Survival Training. –Which is still good, just not what I'm looking for."

A _growl_ issues forth, inorganic and bizarre. The sound of it, the _wrongness_, alerts every muscle in his body before he forces himself to relax. There is no fight or flight. Not here. Not now.

"You are seconds away from losing your status as both Captain, and Living Being. I suggest you use those precious seconds wisely and tarry me no further. -Now. Where do I sign?"

He takes a drag. Considers his options. The men are still, hands drifting to sidearms. They've been listening. Watching. Waiting to see what he will do. He holds the drug-laced fog in his lungs until he feels like he's drowning.

He exhales. Right into the creature's face.

"You can sign this page all you like. However, if you want a position within this organization, I hope you have more than penmanship to bring to the table. –In the meantime, if you need clothes with the Hellsing crest, then I suggest you look to the Lady's closet." He glances at the robe. "I'm sure she has something in your size."

The Captain of the Wild Geese has faced worse than an undead priest whose glower could kill a man. He simply can't remember it at the moment. There is a red halo surrounding the other who is frozen, mid-lunge; snarling in a register the human throat is not equipped for. He's seen that haze before. It is the leash that keeps the big one from killing everyone on the compound. And apparently this one from the same. Merde.

He waits it out. It takes less than a minute for the ensnared to compose himself, but it feels like hours.

Finally out of the ward's merciless grip, the priest reaches for the pen.

"You are an imbecile. It will bring me much joy to deny your passage into the afterlife." He slides the paper over. Pauses. "Or perhaps help you along. -I will need more of this."

The Captain's eyebrows convey just how likely he thinks that will be, but motions to his men in compliance. The others are staring, gazes heavy with equal parts wonder and trepidation. He can't help but agree.

Interesting and terrifying. It should be the Hellsing credo.

|End|


	4. Spoil the Childe

Yeah. Kinda spoilers for the end of the Manga series. Just a little.

Whipping Boy

|Chapter 3|

"Sir, the shipment you inquired about..."

Integra took the manifest and looked it over. Twenty-five kilos of dirt taken from the very edges of the Holy See; soil that cradled nearly a thousand years of saints and martyrs. Its procurement had been a bit of risky business, but money prevailed—even in the seat of the _Glorious_ Catholic Church.

Sighing, she scribbled her name on the line and watched the Butler take the offending bit pulp away. All that work and the insufferable bastard refused to set foot inside a coffin. Vampire, indeed.

He spent most of his days locked in the Seal Room, which was strange considering neither Seras nor Alucard would willingly go near it unless it was to bodily throw the Iscariot inside. Apparently Maxwell found its stone embrace more to his liking than a coffin lined with, what they could only guess was, his home soil. -Give or take a few miles.

He was an orphan. Which didn't make sense so much as it illuminated certain aspects of his personality that had previously been attributed to him being raised by gutless trash.

She could confirm that now.

Tapping the ash off her cigar, she dismissed the entire mess as a write-off and moved to the next item of business. They'd find some use for it, she supposed. Considering the site at which it had been taken, it ought to at least cause some minor irritation. Perhaps they could refine it in some way? She'd have to have a tête à tête with Alucard. -If nothing else, the roses were looking a bit tepid. Perhaps some grave soil would perk them up.

She was jolted from these thoughts by the sound of her door banging wide. Teeth clenching around her cigar, she snaked a hand towards the pistol mounted just above her knee. The movement was aborted a moment later when the violent entrance revealed only Seras, looking disheveled and… was she _steaming?_

Being Maxwell's full-time sitter had obviously taken a turn for the worse. However _that_ was possible.

"I can't do this! I just _can't_. I've tried everything, and he just- He won't—I can't… -_Look at what he's done_!"

The Hellsing heiress looked over her subordinate with a critical eye. Victoria was indeed a sorry mess; her ridiculous uniform burned in some places, torn in others. Anything not ripped or singed was black with filth. The acrid smell of asphalt and burning rubber permeated the room, its origin smoldering in impotent rage. Literally.

A halo of smoke hovered about her like a travesty of the divine.

It was obvious she'd been in some kind of vehicular altercation gone bad, but Integra couldn't visualize the sort of thing that could have put the former officer in such a state. Or how Maxwell had gotten away with it. The Police Girl looked fit to kill, and considering she continuously met Alucard's condescendence and Bernardette's lewd diatribes with little more than mild histrionics, that was no mere feat.

She sighed. Why couldn't she have just given the prig a solid thrashing and be done with it? Did everything concerning that undead waste of space have to fall at her feet today?

She was definitely going to have a little talk with Alucard. Perhaps sooner rather than later.

"Victoria. I, better than anyone, understand the hardships involved in working with that puerile bastard. –However, you must endure. I can't have another Canterbury. Those two nearly caused more damage than the Baedeker Blitz..."

While having Maxwell doing anything outside of the compound unchaperoned was unthinkable, she had learned rather quickly whom NOT to pair him with. The Iscariot was no slouch when it came to casual mayhem and his Sire, whose only joy in life was to cut a bloody swath through all things, living or dead, had no qualms about making a competition of it.

"-I won't have another city leveled for the sake of some base pissing contest. Do you know he's tried to kill Bernardette so many times, his men threatened to quit? They turned down every offer I gave them. Those bloody mercenaries refused to take a dime. All for that piece of utter _garbage_!"

The pain of her fist striking unyielding wood was a welcome distraction. She didn't need this. The priest was proving to be more trouble than he was worth, just as she KNEW he would be from the beginning. Damn him. She should have put a bullet in his brain and _TO HELL_ what Alucard thought.

"What of your Sire? Have you aired your grievances with him?"

The Police Girl, now greatly subdued, made to answer but was interrupted by an errant chuckle. A quick sweep spotted the source of her ire lounging against the doorframe, his amusement evident.

"-I'm sure wherever he is, he's laughing at your expense. I know _I_ am."

Smug satisfaction wreathed the priest like a cheap, cloying perfume. It was obvious he was well fed on the woes of his unwitting partner. –And fresh as a daisy. His high-necked uniform bore no sign of abuse; pristine as the day it left the loom.

Scandalized, Seras struck her finger out in bald accusation.

"-YOU! How DARE you come in here and, a-and…" She turned to Integra in supplication. "I had to rescue a mother and two little-ones from their burning car because of him! One was just a babe! They could have _died_-"

"You speak of that unwed harlot and her illegitimate spawn? –Better to die young and return to the bosom of God than live under the stain of their mother's indiscretion," He cocked his head in her direction. "-wouldn't you agree, my Lady Hellsing?"

She almost snorted. The scandal of her birth was old news. Too old to be thrown in her face by someone who's own parentage was so sorely in question. Rumor had it, Maxwell was the son of a Mistress; abandoned by both parties as an unpleasant reminder of their illicit liaison.

Refuse for the streets of Rome.

"Tell me Maxwell, how is it that you stand before me and extol the virtues of Holy Matrimony, and yet spend your days in a room of pagan blood-rites because you do not know the soil on which you, yourself were spawned?"

There was a beat of silence. Integra waited for telltale glow of the wards' intervention, but the Iscariot merely bared his teeth in a sneer and straightened, abandoning the door and his infantile amusements to stalk off in wounded dignity. Which was a nice surprise. He can be taught, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Satisfied that Maxwell was, for the moment, NOT wreaking havoc, she turned back to her subordinate who was watching the priest's retreat with a frown.

She no longer looked murderous. Integra counted it as a win.

"Your assignment stands. However, I won't tolerate blatant destruction in my own backyard. I want a full report on tonight's incident—along with your input on how the situation could have been better handled. I'll take anything feasible as future guidelines. –Now off you go. If appearance is anything to go by, I'll no doubt be inundated by paperwork for the rest of the evening."

Seras sighed and gave a weak 'Yes, Sir' before taking her leave. Integra watched as she closed the door with more respect than she'd opened it and reached for a stack of intelligence reports. She waited a few moments after the sound of steps receded before calling out to the waiting air.

"Alucard. A word, if you please."

* * *

The scrape of metal over whetstone was calming. Musical. Like the strafe of a bow across a well-tuned instrument.

Father Alexander Anderson tilted his head in charmed reverence as he set to his work.

Maxwell had been missing for over a month now. And while Father Renaldo had been acting as interim Director, it was only a matter of time before the position changed hands in a more permanent manner. Probably to M'Quve. He was the only one who'd managed to survive his ill-fated attempt to usurp Maxwell's position. They were probably already processing the paperwork for his transfer back to Section XIII.

The soothing grind of his task was marred by a scowl.

It galled him that no one had been sent out to investigate. He knew in his bones that Hellsing's pet Midian, and by default—his master knew something, but his repeated requests to investigate or even enter the country had firmly been denied. Heinkel and Yumie were keeping their eyes and ears open, but they were never sent anywhere near Hellsing's nosferatu on principle and he was… Well, it seemed he was _grounded_.

The scowl stretched into a grimace. Not that he minded extra time with the children, but he was a weapon. A divine sword of retribution meant to cleave the vile hearts of monster and heathen alike. What good was a weapon strapped in its sheath? And for what?

_Shhhk. Shhk. Shhhk. Shhk._

There was little he could do about it at the moment. Until Section XIII stabilized from Enrico's absence, he would likely _stay _grounded. They didn't trust him not to slip the leash again. He nearly caused a major incident the last time, or so he'd been told. Maxwell had been very understanding about it all. Pleased, even—though he hadn't been able to express the sentiment at the time.

He missed that. Missed _him_. The man was a selfish, egotistical prick, but his fanaticism was the stuff of legend. A gift to behold. Pride was a useless, sinful emotion, but he couldn't help but swell with it when the young Bishop worked himself into a zealous rant. He had carefully banked that fire for over ten years, and to think of it being extinguished by that wretched, grinning abomination-

The blade slipped off the whetstone and sawed into his flesh. Sighing in annoyance, he pawed for a dry cloth; daubing at the wound and watching impassively as it knit itself closed. He slid the rag over the knife and, satisfied that he'd left no trace of himself on it, put it to stone once more.

He just had to wait. They would need his blades. And when they did, he would go. Until then, he could do nothing else.

Patience was a virtue. One he had no choice but to pursue.

* * *

He was a thousand eyes.

Lined along the rooftops like so many carrion birds, Alucard watched the street below as hundreds of silent shadows—though to anyone else he was a cloud of bats. Naturally, being split into so many tiny pieces was a difficult state to maintain, but his prey was wary. Preternaturally so.

Yes, despite his initial dislike he was quite pleased with his newest fledgling. Maxwell had taken to his vampiric inheritance almost immediately, and he was continuously impressed by the boy's creativity. His exploits from earlier in the evening had been exceptionally entertaining, as had his repeated attempts to inflict various forms of death on the Captain and other members of the household—with the exceptions of Integra and Walter of course.

He'd personally taken care of that particular urge early on. –They were _his_.

He couldn't smile, but his fragmented body fluttered happily as one. He could feel it. Thin and trembling like over-taxed wire. The wards were only ever meant to contain one. _Him_. It was only a matter of time until the combined strain of three Midians, helped along by Maxwell's violent thrashing, provided him with the opening he needed.

He didn't even have to do anything. The priest's own neurotic temperament was both fuel and spark.

Shifting with eagerness, he continued his surveillance. Soon he would have all that was his due and more. Their warrior queen, their blood-tribute. This cold barbarian land would become his new seat of power and the world would tremble.

But first, a little reigning in. Master had been quite specific about that.

* * *

Slapping a fine layer of dirt from his gloves, Maxwell admired his handiwork.

His disgraced jacket lay in a heap, its crest defamed—no, _purified_ by the humble flame of a vagrant's lighter. He contemplated returning the item to its putrefying owner then thought better of it. It had served far nobler cause than its previous purpose, this night. Perhaps it would again.

The urge to burn more than just Hellsing pride was strong but the evening's potential stayed his hand.

Content for the moment, he left the alley and caught up to the ill-fated youths he'd been tailing. This was merely a hunting ground for human predators. Drug peddlers, sexual deviants. The real prize was somewhere in the heart of this industrial maze and this group of stumbling, giggling teenagers was his ticket.

A buzz of excitement went through him. -A nest. Tonight he would find a nest. He would usurp that sow and her coterie and rub that mongrel Alucard's face in it as if it were a spot of soiled carpet.

He would show them the true art of demon-hunting.

He reached into his pocket for the crumpled flier and its scribbled map. A higher vantage point would no doubt prove more reliable than a gaggle of intoxicated minors, but his prey was wary. He checked his progress with the dubiously drawn landmarks and remained at a distance. He had discarded the jacket in case he had to herd the bait himself, but it seemed they were making good time, despite their chemical handicap.

He scoffed. What had they called it? A 'rave'? –'Rite' was more like it. Like heathen Jezebels prancing naked around an unholy flame, these children thought to offer themselves up to the Dark One through their own base desires. It was if nothing had changed in the last thousand years.

Well, he may be mired on a Godless spit of land, but he would ensure the Devil had no new minions this night. It was his sacred duty to deliver the sweet release of death unto those that would sully their souls beyond saving. These children would not be counted among the damned.

They would die first. And heaven would welcome them.

* * *

It was obvious Maxwell was on the scent, but on the scent of what?

Alucard had to concede that his fledglings had a knack for subterfuge that he did not possess. He could pass through the human world by grace of his thrall (or in one of his alter forms—like now), but it was always at a certain distance. He could not walk freely among them without purposely dampening his presence in their minds. He simply stood out too much, no matter what form he chose.

And while Seras was still human in manner and deed, the Priest… Well, it seems the Iscariot was adept at wearing the guise of the flock, when in reality he was the wolf come to devour.

He could not stretch out his senses in this fractured state, but it was all the better. If Maxwell was tracking big game, then his probing would only expose the hunt. And he certainly didn't want that, order or no.

No. Better for him to flush out the prey so that he could make the kill. It would be suitable punishment that would bring honor to the Hellsing name—which would make it all the more unbearable for the Priest, who still slew in the name of the Church.

He watched as his childe kept a stealthy distance between himself and the hapless chattel he was tailing. They seemed to be migrating towards a certain structure, and he didn't have to get any closer to guess what lay hidden inside. Drunken revelry, sexual gratification, drug-heightened euphoria. All writhing in the belly of a beast whose metal bones shook to the beat of an electric heart.

And somewhere at its core, a parasite. Perhaps more than one.

Wings rustled, causing little more than a whisper. He would rob the Priest of this conquest and show his unwitting spawn the power of true Midians. It would be a lesson in humility. One long overdue.

Quivering with anticipation, he let the tiny fluttering bodies dissolve into mist before pouring himself down the side of his perch and onto the street. Fog was hardest to maintain—he felt his consciousness stretched to the very limits but his awareness held as he ghosted after Maxwell and his ambitious endeavor.

He had yet to have the Priest's full submission. He'd been enjoying carefully wounding the Iscariot's pride and controlling his murderous urges in secret, using the fledgling bond to erase the memory of his meddling—leaving the spite intact. That game would continue, but there would be a new set of rules. Tonight he would mete out his much-needed discipline and savor it like wine.

Tonight, Maxwell would call him 'Master.'

* * *

The crush of bodies parted around him, leaving faint hints of warmth against his skin. He'd long lost his small band of juveniles to the surging fray, but it mattered little. The gutted warehouse was a riot of light and sound—the pulsing bass like a living heart in his chest. Surrounded by the stink of human sweat, whorls of sweet smoke and the heady scent of flushed exertion, the illusion was complete.

He felt alive. He'd almost forgotten what that was like.

In response, his hunger flared like a nova but he suppressed it with a will borne of long practice. These polluted dolls were not worth his time. He'd just as soon stick a tooth in one of _them_. Out there amongst the teeming masses they trolled; their presence like cold spots in his mind. A few acknowledged him, though none tried to speak. It seemed the technology was limited in that respect.

He sneered. Even he, a mere _childe,_ was far beyond what these pathetic creatures could ever hope to be.

The nest was quite a bit larger than he'd anticipated, though made up of newly turned. Disappointment loomed. They were little more than ghouls. Hardly any sport at all. Still, history taught that numbers won wars. And his were severely limited. He would need a careful strategy to ensure all of the filth was cleansed from this place.

He made a circuit of the perimeter. Standard metal prefab. Old, but well-kept. He glanced up at the ceiling and squinted through the cacophony of haphazardly-rigged stage lights. And found what he was looking for.

Yes. That would do nicely.

He scanned the crowd. He would need a diversion. No one would probably care if he went to the roof, but it was best to have an alibi. He found it milling along the wall, away from the surging dancers. A wallflower, ripe for the pluck.

He put on his most charming smile before leaning down and putting words in her ear; in her mind. It would have been a simple thing to have her complicity without the reinforcement, but time was short. He'd left his mewling keeper behind with the rest of the Hellsing riff-raff, but his absence would be noted by the Nosferatu, if no one else.

And he'd beaten that idiot to the punch once before, hadn't he? As a human, no less. This victory would ensure his humiliation was complete. -Especially in the eyes of his so-called Master. Ha!

Filled with righteous motivation, he made short work of the human gush. However, getting his flower to follow him up the rickety ladder proved too difficult for even compulsion. In the end, he slung her over his shoulder and scaled the distance in a few short jumps. He didn't bother to hide her screams. He'd been identified among the assembled Freaks as one of their own, and doubted any would begrudge him a little privacy to enjoy his meal.

Once ascended, he dumped her on her rear; silencing her keening with a sharp command.

While Maxwell didn't exactly have a degree in engineering, it didn't take long to find the reservoir that fed the dilapidated sprinkler system. He placed his hands its dull metal surface and knocked. An aborted echo answered. Water was within.

He paused, hands splayed. Last time he'd done this, he used a full canister of silver nitrate. This time, unfortunately, there hadn't been a photo-lab[1] within robbing distance. He didn't even have _salt_.

Ah well, even if it didn't burn, it would still cause a stampede.

Sighing he turned his eyes to the sky in supplication. His blood may carry an unholy stain, but his faith burned fierce and pure. He said a prayer to the Blessed Mother for strength with the promise that, if this worked, the next item upon which he would bestow a consecrated kiss would be Integra's shower head.

He imagined Alucard's screams as his vile shadow was scalded by blessed steam and smiled. Surely God would grant him this humble favor, to protect a woman's virtue… -Even if it was _that_ woman.

So it was, with all the power and grace granted him as Bishop_,_ he began:

_[Water made by God, I purge you of evil,  
__in the name of God the Father almighty,  
__in the name of Jesus Christ His Son our Lord,  
__and in the power of the Holy Spirit.  
__Become now water blessed to banish all power of the enemy,  
__and to conquer and dispel that enemy himself with his fallen angels,  
__by the power of the same Lord Jesus Christ,  
__who shall come to judge the living and the dead  
__and the world by fire.][2]_

He bowed his head in reverence. Tonight he triumphed over the curse in glorious exaltation. The might of Yahweh would crush the powers of darkness and all its vile servants. Those below would bear witness.

Walking back to the edge, he glanced briefly at the tear stained girl still whimpering quietly in terror.

Good. Let her remember this night. Let her see him as the Devil come for his due. _Go and repent. Repent and never stray from the light again. Or I'll come for you._

She wept. He rolled his eyes and leapt to the ground. Pawing at his pants for the lighter which had freed him from the abominable Hellsing crest, he walked back the way he came; absently flicking the flame to life.

It was time.

"_We art disciples of death…"_

* * *

He settled atop a neighboring roof to watch.

This close he could feel the presence of those bottom-feeding scum. A good many of them. Perhaps too many for his wayward fledgling. Still, Maxwell strode into the poorly concealed den without fear. And why not? The little ignoramus didn't fear _him_; what could possibly await within that could even compare?

Nothing. There was no big game here. Just _ants_. -Pissants.

He sneered. For all the punishment he was about to receive, Maxwell had certainly picked a poor catalyst for it. Cleaning out a large group of Freaks would no doubt make the Table Knights happy, but both he and Integra knew the real problem was the source. And while this 'nest' was right in the middle of an industrial area, it was no manufacturing site.

He'd personally taken some of those down, and they always had the very best the FREAK chip had to offer. Nothing like the low-level trash holed up here. Bah.

It wasn't long before Maxwell reappeared outside with someone in tow. Oh ho. He nearly laughed (or tried to, as it were) as his childe gave up his feeble attempts at 'persuasion' and simply absconded with his prize. And what was he doing with a human, anyway? Unlike the Police Girl, who futilely grasped at the shreds of her fading humanity, the Iscariot embraced all aspects of his undead status save one: he did not drink. Because apparently no one was _worthy_.

He didn't even _look_ at medical blood. Unless it was to sneer.

Dismissing the thought that he had bred two of the world's pickiest eaters, he rematerialized; stretching out his senses like limbs long constrained. There was no point in keeping his presence a secret. Let the rats know he was coming. It wouldn't save them.

He kept his presence from his childe, though. It wouldn't do to spoil the surprise. Not yet.

Maxwell came down from the roof, leaving his unlikely victim terrorized but unmolested. He was curious as to what he'd been doing up there. It had only been a short time and-

_We art disciples of death.  
__The death disciple group._

The Midian crowed in delight at the familiar litany. Maxwell was projecting it. Not at him, but at the bewildered collective still unaware of their impending doom. The fools!

_Only bowing and praying forgiveness of the Lord.  
__Only bowing and defeating the enemies of the Lord.  
__Wielding our dagger in the night and poisoning the evening meal.  
__We art assassins.  
__The assassin Judas!_

The hunter was in the lair of the beast now. And still they did not run. He could feel their confusion, but beyond that there was no recognition. No real fear. Modern apathy for religion made them blind to what was coming. -What was already _there_.

_When the time comes we shall cast our thirty silver pieces at the altar,  
__and hang thy head from our rope.  
__Thereby we shalt fall to Hell in cabal,  
__lined up in square formation._

Alucard leapt to the abandoned roof, causing the human Maxwell had discarded there to shriek beautifully. The battle approached, its portent heady like blood freshly laid. It still wasn't clear what clever trap the Priest had wrought, though its machinations would be revealed shortly. His chilled blood sang in anticipation.

_We seek to do battle with the seven million,  
__four-hundred-five-thousand,  
__nine hundred twenty-six  
__demons of Hell._

He muttered the incantation that would release the seals and waited for the surge to overtake him. It had been too long. Much too long.

_Apocalypse now!_

At first there was nothing. Wavering in his nebulous, unrestrained form he almost missed the sound of screaming before all Hell broke loose. And so did he.

* * *

Maxwell whooped like a child as he mowed down horror and hubris alike. He'd taken no weapons save for a knife of blessed steel (he was still working on his silver tolerance), and he used his enhanced strength and speed to cut down whatever stood in his path. In twos and threes.

The smell of burning permeated the air. God had sent a torrent of His fury. While the humans had raised a cry at the deluge, the Freaks had howled in agony-their flesh burning in the onslaught. The squealing undead had actually led the exodus, trampling over the living in their haste.

It was glorious.

Too caught up in the slaughter, he failed to notice when things started to change. Concrete turned to dust. Metal became wood, and the burning scent intensified until his eyes watered with it. The bright, gaudy clothing of modern times became the drab coarse-weave of another, and suddenly he wasn't running towards something.

He was running away from it.

Stopping in his tracks, he took stock of the situation. He was NOT where he had been just moments before. There were no warehouses. No streets. No throngs of shrieking, fleeing—oh, wait. They were still here, though decidedly different in dress and manner. He shook his head. Hypnosis? Surely none of those mongrels could do such a thing. But then—

The shrill trumpet of a horse brought him back to the matter at hand.

A frothing charger was bearing down on the fleeing mass, its rider cutting down stragglers left and right. Emblazoned across the crimson tunic was a familiar crest. A dragon and cross entwined. Wallachia. _Dracul._

He sneered. Was he supposed to be intimidated? By_ this? _The Midian had powers that transcended the demonic and he wasted them on this _farce_? Fool. He was not some shrinking violet, some skittish human _sheep_. He was Iscariot. His knife would one day pierce the neck of the Devil himself. These shadow-puppets were _nothing_.

He would show him. Show him just how futile his power was in the face of his conviction.

Some of the men were taking a feeble stand with whatever they could find, mostly farm tools. Next to him, one of these unfortunates was felled where he stood, his billhook too large and unwieldy to block the sword that gutted him. Taking the attacker's head apart in one swipe, he relieved the gurgling peasant of his burden and turned to the pursuing mount.

He waited until they were almost upon him, then he swung. He took the forelegs off the animal in the first pass and split the rider in two with the second, catching him as he was thrown from the saddle.

Inhuman shrieks lit the air. He let out a bark of laughter. He could smell the blood, both animal and human. The raw dirt. The shit still trapped in entrails. It was absurd.

Ignoring the rabble, he set his sights on the Wallachia Knights. They were well-trussed in armor and bracers, but before his blade they may as well have been wrapped in foil. He attacked ruthlessly and relentlessly, sometimes catching an innocent bystander or a blow for his efforts but it barely registered.

None of this mattered. It wasn't even _real_.

Somewhere at the heart of this delirium would be the Puppet Master—fully-released and unfettered by the Pagan shackles of his Hellsing keepers. He could feel it. Like Ba'al, the insatiable furnace to which the ancients fed their shrieking children, so too was the Midian's bloodlust.

_My childe. Come to me. –Hurry!_

Insane laughter tickled his brain as he eviscerated yet another combatant. Or maybe it was his own, bubbling from his mouth like bloody foam. His heart was still and yet his body _pulsed_ with energy. He was coming. Coming to meet his maker. To strike him _down_.

_Hurry!_

Suddenly there were no enemies, no hapless naïfs—only obstacles. And for all the hindrance they provided, they could have been paper dolls. Warriors; sometimes two abreast. A screaming child. A fleeing maid. All fell before his scythe like tender yield.

_HURRY!_

He crested a rise and brought his blade to bear on… nothing. Trembling with unsated violence, he scanned his surroundings, looking for anything that moved. Anything at all. A field piece-meal remains lay behind him, some still twitching as their lifeblood fed the dusty ground. The so-called 'peasants' were either escaped or dead and the sovereign Wallchia forces were, as far as he could see, decimated—though that hardly counted.

A bell tolled in the distance, and he lurched at the sound. In the center of this make-believe hamlet was a large earthen structure with a rough cross at its head. He watched as heavy wooden doors were pulled shut behind the last survivors and the bell silenced. It's fading echo the last call for Sanctuary.

The church. His memory churned as the burning throb of urgency abated. How could he have been so blind! The revelers and freaks. –They were holed up in that, that.. –Whatever that really was. In his fervor to eradicate his erstwhile oppressor he'd been separated from the quarry!

Seething, he took a step towards the crude cathedral to remedy the situation, but whirled at the slow clop of hooves from behind.

In the modern country of Transylvania, few depictions of the famed Impaler have survived the passage of time. The most famous is the portrait of him in the national museum, painted years after his supposed death and likely based off coinage and local iconography. Maxwell has studied every scrap of history that has featured his name or likeness in his quest to _know thyne enemy_. Down to the most minute detail.

The creature that looms before him is not the Alucard of Hellsing, nor is it the dark-eyed hero who stemmed the Ottoman advance. It is… an amalgam of history and legend and stark reality. None of which _makes sense_.

Resplendent in noble battledress, the Voivode of Wallachia smirks down at him from his shifting mount.

"_It seems you have been led astray, Father. Your flock has fled into the arms of their pathetic God, and you into the hands of His most bitter enemy. Your wretched struggle has bought you nothing but this…"_

The dark head cast his eyes to an unseen point beyond his shoulder and there is, unbelievably, movement—where once there was none. Behind him, two of the previously annihilated Wallachia forces peel from the assemblage (when? _how_?) and begin to hack at lintels and poles—anything of wood with a decent heft. The rest wait silently, forming a perimeter that stretches beyond the limits of even his unnatural perception.

"_A lesson, Father. Of the fallacy of faith."_

He realizes his mistake almost as soon as he makes it, turning to stare dumbfounded at the restored militia when he should have kept his eyes on their liege. There is no warning save for the hitch of his own breath as he is scooped off the ground and drug onto the saddle, his simple home-spun stole (he hadn't even noticed he was wearing priest vestments—probably because they were so _poor_) wrapping around his wrists and tightened in such a way that he would have a difficult time freeing himself. His weapon is kicked aside like so much rubbish.

He's shoved upright, and before he can even begin to tear into the absurdity of this whole ordeal, he is stopped by the feel of the monster's lips at his ear. He stiffens, acutely aware of their new proximity.

"Are you enjoying my little show? This is all for you. As much as I love to watch you struggle in futility, you are a child of the night. My childe. And tonight you will act as such."

The sound of the Queen's English is harsh in his ears, and he understands: before he had spoken in his native Wallachian dialect. –Well that could not go without repercussion. Reaming him out in Romany would be an absolute _pleasure_.

"_Your pointless puppet show is nothing but an amusement. I know what word you want to hear and I will not speak it. Your curse is nothing. -NOTHING! I wield the power of Yahweh against the feeble bonds of your putrid blood. I revile it! I rebuke it-"_

The Midian threw back his head and laughed so hard his body shook with it. Like a tidal wave, it echoes through the assembly until the raucous sound of their profane glee drowns out his snarled epithets.

The jerk of movement stops his sanctimonious tirade. He feels his captor nudge their transport towards the doomed church. As they trek through the smoldering parish, a small contingent of torch-bearers form around them; the impromptu wood-cutters passing the fruit of their labors on to their fellows until the crackle of flames and the sliding chink of armor can be heard above even the heaviest tread.

What useless pageantry. Was this supposed to strike a chord? Was he supposed to feel something other than contempt for that squalid little band of wasted life? He posed the question aloud.

"Pardon me, but is this supposed to mean something? I know what you intend to do. It is legend. Are you under the mistaken impression that, simply because you've made it a church, I am somehow supposed to… care? Because I can assure you I have seen the loss of many churches, of many patrons, of innocents and guilty alike and have not been moved by it. Surely you must know this."

There is no retort. Apparently the interactive portion of the tour is now over.

A short, uneventful span of time occurs before they stand before the simple church. It is a shame he cannot remember what actually stands in this spot, but he supposes it doesn't matter. Whatever reality is being played out, he knows without a doubt what is happening within: Men pacing in agitation. Clumps of women whispering frantic prayers, children clutched to their sides. A tale as old as time itself.

Or more perhaps: a room of whimpering, gibbering humanity—a mish-mash of age, race and sex all softened into a formless hysteria by drugs, lifestyle and baseless desires. There will be no tragic heroes. Only shameless animal fear.

The knights don't wait for orders. They know their purpose and waste no time getting underway; kicking dry, brittle grass into kindling. Throwing torches into dry thatch. Leering through tiny earthen windows—daring those who would hope to escape. Against the divine spark, blessing and bane of the ancient world, this humble House of God stands no chance.

It is hardly any time at all before the entire top goes up in an audible 'woosh'.

"_Did you know, Father, that I was once a good man? That I devoted my life to keeping the heathen filth from desecrating these lands? That I am heralded as a hero, not only by my people—but by the Church as well?"_

Maxwell is startled by conversational tone, but not the revelation. The Impaler's baptismal rites and vicious campaigns against the Islamic invaders are a matter of public record. -Though calling himself a 'good man' was likely a stretch.

"Oh, I am quite familiar with your standing with the Church. It must fill you with righteous satisfaction to know you are looked upon as the _lowest of worms that feed on shit_-"

The hand threading through his hair is the only warning he receives before he is crushed to his captor's body, throat bared to the point of pain. It's so banal that he can't help but laugh; greeting the promise of violence like an old friend.

Anything to end this ridiculous charade.

Warm air ghosts over his flesh and he attributes it to the spectacular blaze before him, until it slides against his skin in fricatives and plosives. -Not touching. Not… quite.

"Keep your God if it pleases you. Pledge to Him what is left of your immortal soul. The thin veneer of your faith will never cease to be amusing, so I will allow it—even as you conspire against me."

He is jerked around so fast that, had he still been human, he'd surely have been snapped in two. He is flush against the other now, his bound hands the only thing keeping them from being chest to chest. Groin to groin. The beast beneath them shifts at the sudden movement and he is hyper aware. Every second stretched into an eternity.

"Just remember. I am the Omega and the Alpha. I am Death and what comes after. Whatever you might have been was lost the moment your blood wet my lips. What you now become rests on a whim. –Mine, and mine alone."

There is a touch on his face, on his chin. The unforgiving vice against his scalp has moved to the small of his back. Leather fills his senses as the hand tilts his face up and up until his eyes are met by two coals burning in the face of a man.

"This body belongs to me. Do not, for a second, believe otherwise or we will have this lesson again. And again. And again until there is nothing left to defy my will."

Pain is what he expects. What he _needs_. Pain, violence—they are brothers at arms. Trusted guides. He knows when to follow and when to fight when they are with him. His threshold is a well-exercised muscle, and he waits for it. For the pain. The brutality. For the burning coals to set his mind alight and his body shuddering with furious agony.

There is no pain as the teeth pierce his skin. Only warmth and the sensation of falling. As if in a dream.  
There is no battle. He cannot fight this. He doesn't even know _how_.

He waits for the jolt. For the dream to end with death. But darkness reaches up to meet him, surrounds him. Consumes him. He's never felt so _warm_.

And the ground never comes.

* * *

Seras hastily pulled on her boots, frowning at the stiff newness of the leather.

Sir Integra was kind enough to allow her to use the master bath instead of the small cubical that served as her shower. She had also ensured that she was outfitted with new kit, although there had only been pants available on such short notice. Still, it warmed her heart to know that even as she was considered a soulless monster as a rule—the Hellsing heiress also recognized her as a woman. One of the few, other than household servants, that she interacted with on a regular basis.

It was a credit to her humanity that Integra treated her as she did. And Seras was grateful for it. Would never do anything to betray that fine thread of trust, and yet…

She really hated her job sometimes. Lately, more often than not.

Sighing as her foot was properly trussed, she stood; wriggling her toes and stamping a few times to help stave off the agony she was sure to be in after traipsing around in unbroken shoes. After that bleeding imbecile, Maxwell.

Ah well, if she was going to be in pain, there was no reason not to soften her boot leather by judiciously applying it to the Iscariots deserving backside. Or whatever she could reach. -No reason to be picky.

With that in mind, she made her way up to the manor proper—only to pause as a curl of darkness settled over brain. A familiar, welcoming darkness.

She smiled. Perhaps she would not have aching feet after all.

_Master!  
_

A fluttering tickle of amusement answered her call. Master was in a good mood. Surely he must have found Maxwell and given him a good thrashing.

_Of course. Was there any doubt?_

_Not from me, Master. But Sir Integra was just about to send me after you. It's only a few hours until dawn, after all.  
_

More amusement. She began to move to intercept, her mind recognizing the fleeting high of post-battle euphoria. Oh, those were always a treat. If she was quick enough, she just might be able to bask in the glow of his elation for a few minutes before he saw Integra. -Before he became his surly self again.

Judging by the exuberance she was getting from him, Maxwell must be little more than a rapidly-healing smear.

Using a little vampiric speed, which she would feel guilty for _later—_thank you, she caught up to him in less than a minute. She was disappointed to find that the priest was not, in fact, a smear. He was nearly perfectly intact, save for his missing coat and his glazed expression. –And that he was curled against Master's chest like a child.

Ok. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. She had hoped to enjoy her Masters cheer and maybe indulge in a little smug satisfaction, but seeing the Iscariot in her master's arms was not exactly making her feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

In fact, it was making her feel rather-

"Do not waste such petty emotions on the priest, Police Girl. Once I present him to Integra he is to go back into the Seal Room until Integra decides he is useful again. After that, I will be glad to carry you to anywhere you would like to go."

His leer turned into a frown when he noticed her attire.

"Where is your uniform, Police Girl? I should like to see your legs."

She sputtered for a minute, what little blood she had rushing to her face.

"I, ah.. This _is_ my uniform. The other one got all ripped and this was all they had on short notice." She glared accusingly at Maxwell who didn't even blink. "–But Walter says he's getting me another skirt! He'll have it by tomorrow."

It wasn't her fault she had a closet full of tops with no bottoms. Miniskirts weren't exactly standard issue. Walter had to have them made from scratch—or in a pinch, altered from trousers and she'd ruined the two spares she had on some of Maxwell's other escapades. Bloody wanker.

And well, it was no secret that both Walter and Master were a couple of lechers. Miniskirts and huge guns. Honestly.

Her master was mollified by this. Looking down at his charge, he grinned in a way that actually made her feel a little sorry for the git. Whatever it was that had him smirking like that couldn't bode well.

"Well, I don't see why you wouldn't be due some recompense. The next time Maxwell is the cause of a loss in wardrobe, he will be required repay the debt by replacing the damaged articles with his own—wearing the damaged clothes until they are restored. What do you say to that?"

Seras tried to swat the mental picture away before it formed, to no avail. The tragedy of it was, aside from being taller, Maxwell could probably wear her clothes without issue—except for perhaps, the shoes.

"Um, wow. That's disturbing. I'm really not interested in wearing anything of his, but if you want to make him wear my old stuff… -I mean, I don't know what Integra would make of it, but if you think it might curb his behavior-"

As he so often did when she rambled, he turned his attention elsewhere.

"And what say you, Priest? An eye for an eye and a skirt for a skirt?"

Maxwell stirred for the first time since she'd laid eyes on him. Craning his head towards her master, _their_ master, he said in flat, monotonous tone:

"Si, Maestro."

She could only gape as Master swept away, laughing at her floored expression as he went to fulfill his duty to Sir Integra, the catatonic Iscariot in tow. She stared after them a moment, then shook herself out of her daze.

Turning heel back towards the bowels of the manor, Seras left behind what was surely madness of the worst sort.

Priests in miniskirts. Eugh.

|End|

Footnote[1] – Silver nitrate, if I recall my mini-lab days correctly, is a byproduct of modern photo developing. It is toxic and requires special handling. And most places have a giant canister of the stuff in their backrooms.

Footnote[2] – Thank you Google. This is part of an actual rite to purify and bless water—thus making it Holy. It is only part of the invocation.


End file.
